Hotness Overload Quotes

What brings you relief? Speaking your truth, crying your grief, or not needing to speak? Reading, writing, playing games, dancing, or doing nothing at all? Listening to songs, or piano etudes, or complete silence? Darkness or candlelight or bright beating sun? Blues, reds, yellows, many colors, or no color at all? Hot or cold water? Immersed or pouring over you? Tasting something crunchy, or sweet and smooth? The scent of jasmine, or cucumber, or musk? Someone touching you gently, or going deep, or being utterly and completely alone? We are all different... When the quality of the overload changes, so does the quality of relief.

it occurred to him that kids were better at almost dying, and they were also better at incorporating the inexplicable into their lives. They believed implicitly in the invisible world. Miracles both bright and dark were to be taken into consideration, oh yes, most certainly, but they by no means stopped the world. A sudden upheaval of beauty or terror at ten did not preclude an extra cheesedog or two for lunch at noon. “But when you grew up, all that changed. You no longer lay awake in your bed, sure something was crouching in the closet or scratching at the window ... but when something did happen, something beyond rational explanation, the circuits overloaded. The axons and dendrites got hot. You started to jitter and jive, you started to shake rattle and roll, your imagination started to hop and bop and do the funky chicken all over your nerves. You couldn’t just incorporate what had happened into your life experience. It didn’t digest. Your mind kept coming back to it, pawing it lightly like a kitten with a ball of string ... until eventually, of course, you either went crazy or got to a place where it was impossible for you to function.

I swallowed hard, a hot flush blazing a trail across my skin. Reminded me of that old television show, Bonanza. You know, the one with the burning map and the lively western tune? Yeah, my skin was that map, but the song blaring in my head leaned more toward a “bow-chick-a-wow-wow” sound than anything else. Hormone overload!

Like electricity running through her body or the thick velvet of magic making everything tingle; she was hot and cold and shivering from both, her sense in total overload. - City of Ghosts

Seems like it,” answered Bowman. “The unit checks out perfectly. Even under two hundred percent overload, there’s no fault prediction indicated.” The two men were standing in the tiny workshop-cum-lab in the carrousel, which was more convenient than the space-pod garage for minor repairs and examinations. There was no danger, here, of meeting blobs of hot solder drifting down the breeze, or of completely losing small items of equipment that had decided to go into orbit. Such things could—and did—happen in

My back hit the wall. He closed in with an almost terrifying intensity. His muscular body boxed me in. “Rogan,” I warned. In my head, a song played over and over, singing to me in a seductive voice, Rogan, Rogan, Rogan, sex . . . want . . . “Remember that dream you had?” His voice was low, commanding. “Rogan!” The delicious warmth danced around my neck. “Where I had no clothes?” The warmth split and slid over me, over the sensitive nerves in the back of my neck, over my collarbone, around my breasts, cupping them and sliding fast to the tips, tightening my nipples, then sliding down, over my stomach, over my sides and butt, down between my legs. It was everywhere at once, and it flowed over me like a cascade of sensual ecstasy, overloading my senses, overriding my reason, and rendering me speechless. I hurtled through it, trying to sort through the sensations and failing. My head spun. He was right there, masculine, hot, sexy, so incredibly sexy, and I wanted to taste him. I wanted his hands on me. I wanted him to press himself against the aching spot between my legs. His arms closed around me. His face was too close, his eyes enticing, compelling, excited. “Let’s talk about that dream, Nevada.” I was trapped. I had nowhere to go. If he kissed me, I would melt right here. I would moan and beg him, and I would have sex with him right here, in the Galleria, in public. A spark of pain drained down my arm, driven by pure instinct. I grabbed his shoulder. Feathery lightning shot out and singed him. Agony exploded in me, cleansing like an ice-cold shower. Rogan’s body jerked, as if struck by an electric current. It lasted only a second, and I didn’t push as hard as I could have. I was learning to control it. Rogan whipped back to me, his eyes feral. His voice was a ragged growl. “Was that supposed to hurt?” “It was supposed to get your attention.” I pushed him back with my hand. “You were getting really excited.” “‘No’ would’ve been sufficient.” “I wasn’t sure.” I pushed from the wall and headed for the exit. “I said ‘once.’ That was more than once. I wanted you to stop.” “I was encouraged by you breathlessly moaning my name.” I spun on my foot. “I wasn’t moaning your name. I was shrieking in alarm.” “That was the sexiest throaty shrieking I’ve ever heard.” “You need to get out more.” My cheeks were burning.

But when you grew up, all that changed. You no longer lay awake in your bed, sure something was crouching in the closet or scratching at the window . . . but when something did happen, something beyond rational explanation, the circuits overloaded. The axons and dendrites got hot. You started to jitter and jive, you started to shake rattle and roll, your imagination started to hop and bop and do the funky chicken all over your nerves. You couldn’t just incorporate what had happened into your life experience. It didn’t digest. Your mind kept coming back to it, pawing it lightly like a kitten with a ball of string

But when you grew up, all that changed. You no longer lay awake in your bed, sure something was crouching in the closet or scratching at the window ... but when something did happen, something beyond rational explanation, the circuits overloaded. The axons and dendrites got hot. You started to jitter and jive, you started to shake rattle and roll, your imagination started to hop and bop and do the funky chicken all over your nerves. You couldn’t just incorporate what had happened into your life experience. It didn’t digest. Your mind kept coming back to it, pawing it lightly like a kitten with a ball of string ... until eventually, of course, you either went crazy or got to a place where it was impossible for you to function.

Rafe slipped a third finger into Kris’s tight channel, opening and stretching him for his mate and the inevitable fulfillment of their seductive, sensuous confluence. Suddenly releasing Kris’s lips, Rafe licked his way down with a single wet line to Kris’s groin, flicking the tip of his tongue quickly over the silky-smooth, smoldering-hot crown of Kris’s dick that jumped at the brief contact, leaking milky drops of precum, and Kris moaned louder. Devoted to Kris’s dick with a hungry mouth, Rafe made a fierce foray over Kris’s shaft, suckling the length and tonguing the slit mercilessly until all that was left of Kris’s overactive brain evaporated in fumes, not knowing if he’d ever recover from this onslaught to his body’s nether regions and this attack on his senses and nerves until they overloaded and short-circuited.

Also as in natural settings, in workplaces without well-defined processes, energy minimization becomes prioritized. This is fundamental human nature: if there’s no structure surrounding how hard efforts are coordinated, we default to our instinct to not expend any more energy than is necessary. Most of us are guilty of acting on this instinct when given a chance. An email arrives that informally represents a new responsibility for you to manage; because there’s no formal process in place to assign the work or track its progress, you seek instead the easiest way to get the responsibility off your plate—even if just temporarily—so you send a quick reply asking for an ambiguous clarification. Thus unfolds a game of obligation hot potato, as messages bounce around, each temporarily shifting responsibility from one inbox to another, until a deadline or irate boss finally stops the music, leading to a last-minute scramble to churn out a barely acceptable result. This, too, is obviously a terribly inefficient way to get work done.

The next night was New Year’s Eve, and I made a secret plan with Shara to meet her outside the back door on the stroke of midnight. “Let’s take a walk,” I suggested. “Sure. It’s midnight, minus five degrees, and pitch black, but hey, let’s walk.” She paused. “But not up Loyal,” she added, smiling. And so we walked together along a moonlit track. Twenty yards and then I will make the move to kiss her, I told myself. But plucking up the courage with a girl this special was harder than I had thought. Twenty yards became two hundred yards. Then two thousand. Forty-five minutes later, she suggested that maybe we should turn around and head back to the house. “Yes. Good idea.” I replied. Do it, Bear, you old woman. Do it now! And so I did. A quick kiss on the lips, then a longer lingering one, and then I had to stop. It was sensory overload. Wow. That was worth the walk, I thought, smiling from ear to ear. “Let’s head back,” I confirmed, still smiling. I am not sure Shara was quite as impressed by the effort-to-reward ratio--long cold walk to short, hot kiss--but as far as I was concerned the sky and clouds had parted, and nothing would ever be the same again.

Wriggling out of his grasp she braced herself on his shoulders and tried to stand. Next thing she knew, he had her around the legs and took her down to the mattress in some sort of super-fast ninja move. She screamed and laughed, and he was laughing every bit as hard as he came down on top of her. And, oh God, his laughter was a sweet and sexy rumble that lit her up inside. “You fight dirty, Easy,” she said around her chuckles. “I haven’t had this much fun in so long.” She caressed his face with her fingers. “Me neither. Between overloading on classes and my epilepsy, I often feel like a little old lady trapped in the body of a twenty-year-old. All I need is some cats.” “Cats are awesome,” he said. “When I was a kid, I used to sneak stray cats into the house, just for a night or two. I’d keep them in my room and bring up bowls of milk and cans of tuna for them.” “Aw, you were a sweet little boy, weren’t you?” she asked, loving how he was opening up to her. The closeness, the sharing, the way his big body was lying on her legs and hips, leading him to prop his head up on her lower stomach—both her heart and her body reacted. “Maybe for about five minutes.” He winked. “Mostly, I was a hell-raiser. Growing up, we didn’t live in the best neighborhood. Drug dealers on the corner, gang activity trying to pull in even the younger kids, crack house one block over. All that. Trouble wasn’t hard to find.” He shrugged. “Army straightened me out, though.” “Well, we lived in a nice neighborhood growing up and here my father was the freaking drug dealer on the corner. Or close enough, anyway.” Jenna stared at the ceiling and shook her head. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get serious.” His thumb stroked along her side, sliding the cotton of her borrowed shirt against her skin in a way that almost tickled. “Don’t apologize. Our histories are what they are, you know?” She nodded and gave him a little smile. “Yeah.” Shifting off her, Easy stretched out alongside her and propped his head up on his arm. “I’m thirty, Jenna,” he said out of nowhere. And he was telling her this because? He thought their age difference was too great? He thought she was too young? He was worried she would think he was too old? Probably D) all of the above. Thing was, all she saw when she looked at Easy was a guy she really freaking liked. One who’d saved her life, helped make her sister safe, and gave her a sense of security she hadn’t felt in years. He was hot as hell, easy to talk to, and one of the kindest guys she’d ever known. Maybe some of that was because he was older. Who knew? “And I need to know this because?” she asked, resting her head on her arm. The muscles of his shoulders lifted into a shrug, but his face was contemplative. “Because there’s clearly something going on between us.” Heat rushed across her body. She held up a hand, and he laced his fingers between hers. “When I look at you, I don’t see a bunch of differences, Easy.” “What do you see then?” Warmth flooded into Jenna’s cheeks, and she chuckled. He’d said that she was beautiful, after all, so why couldn’t she give him a compliment in return? “A really hot guy I’d like to get to know more.” A smug smile slipped onto his face, and she might’ve rolled her eyes if it weren’t so damn sexy. “Really hot, huh?” “Well, kinda hot, anyway.” “Nuh-uh,” he said, tugging her hand to his chest. “Can’t take it back now.” Cheeks burning and big smile threatening, she rolled onto her side to face him. They lay there, side by side, her chest almost touching his, looking at each other. Tension and desire and anticipation crackled in the space between them, making it hard to breathe. “What do you see when you look at me?” she whispered, half-afraid to ask but even more curious to hear what he’d say. Did he mostly see someone who was too young for him? Or a needy girl he had to save and babysit?

He nodded, his nose brushing my face. “Feeling better,” he breathed. “Good, even. Especially when I…” he broke off. Then he tilted his hips and bore down. “Right there,” he panted. “There’s nothing like it.” Biting the corner of his lip, he picked up the pace. It was magical. Every thrust thrilled me. And the knowledge that Josh was riding me, taking pleasure from my body was just incredible. It was sensory overload of the very best kind. “Love you,” I gasped. Josh put more weight on the headboard, and moaned. He moved his hips faster now, fucking himself on me with more urgency. I slid a hand around to cup his ass. The muscle under my hand was contracting rhythmically. Damn that was sexy. I wasn’t going to last much longer. So I took Josh’s cock in hand and started to stroke. I tipped my head back, trying to hold myself together. “Need you to come for me,” I panted, skimming the pad of my thumb over his slit. “Shoot all over my chest,” I begged. Josh shivered. Dirty talk always made him hornier. I loved that. I loved to shock him a little. “I’m going to come in your ass,” I threatened. “You’re going to feel my hot seed inside you. Probably for the rest of the day.” His moans got louder, and I stroked him harder. But it was just all too good. The sights and sounds of our fucking were more than I could bear. “Gotta come,” I growled. My hips began to shake, and then I was shooting, and shooting again. I gave a shout against Josh’s pecs. He whimpered, then froze, and I worried that something was wrong. But then he drenched my hand with his seed. “Mmm,” I crooned, milking him until he finally sagged against my chest.

Ground rules.” “Ah, yes. Rules. Like eight simple rules for fucking my hot derby girl.” “Keep that up and rule number one will be Not Happening.” “Sorry. I’ll be good. Promise. What do you propose? Should I get my lawyer to draw us up a contract, a la Fifty Shades?” He cups his hand around his mouth, whispering as if the squirrels are going to overhear him. “You’re ridiculous. How about we keep it simple? I’m afraid your brain will explode if I try to stuff more information in that clearly overloaded grey matter.” “Do you think I’m some kind of dumb jock just because I’m pretty?” “No. You just already seem to have a plethora of thoughts spilling from your mouth constantly, so I figure you don’t need me to add the burden.

Sensory overload is a legit thing. Everything on me is strung tight, just waiting to break. The more he moves over me, the tighter the strings get. My nails dig into his shoulders as he continues to watch the myriad of expressions I must be giving him as he unravels me thrust by thrust. Then it hits. It hits hard. Those strings break, and euphoria crackles across my body like a bomb that detonates in my core and explodes outward. It rolls across me, curling my toes, flashing behind my eyelids that shut at some point, and licks across my skin like hot, incredible flames. When I cry out and thrash beneath him wildly, his rhythm changes, becoming more urgent. I hold on as he drags out my orgasm in a way I didn’t know was possible, and then he grunts, his hips jerking against me as he finds his own little version of heaven. At least I hope he feels this good.

Stuck with a pile of tumultuous feelings about her friend, your daughter handed those feelings off to you. Now she can go out and play happily, while you are the one with the overload of feelings. In his book Playful Parenting, Larry Cohen calls this the game of emotional hot potato. We are sitting ducks for this game because we are hardwired to empathize with our child. We have to make sure we don’t overreact because we were the last ones left with the potato.

persistent practice and rare insights help shrink the once almighty I, the vulnerable Me, and the intrusive Mine. Not gone entirely. Just reduced to manageable proportions. Just i-me-mine. Something more considerate of the you, the we, the ours, and the rest of the biosphere. Being diminutive, this new i-me-mine carries a very low profile. Smaller and streamlined, it no longer sticks up high to trip the positive functions of the mature ego. Neither is it windblown by every shifting, hot or cold breeze from the old instinctual self. Nor will it be overloaded by distortions imposed by others’ guilt-ridden consciences.

Everyone is worried,” Kenneth murmured. I couldn’t blame them. Unfortunately, their concern just added pressure to my already overloaded shoulders. If I had my way, I’d be in a hot bath with a bottle of wine right now, hiding from my responsibilities. Not an option. I straightened my shoulders and vowed to be worthy of my ancestors. At least, I would try to be.

It may also be useful to point out here that the war waged on hydroxychloroquine by CNN, the FDA, and a lot of anti-Trump journalists in between was about as pure a case of racial discrimination as you can get. Here was a medicine we could have quickly dispensed in the hot-zone days of March and April to the low-income, primarily Black and Brown communities being hammered in our largest cities. This medicine would not only have reduced the death rates in those communities, it would have prevented hospital overloading, reduced the need for ventilators, and reduced the need for extra health care workers.

I think God is really a ruthless artist and earth is an early draft. This draft was bad, overloaded with gratuitous cruelty.